Solange and I smile at each other. It gives me the opportunity to look at her. Really look at her. Without the spectacle of a canceled wedding in the forefront. Without the prospect of her saying no to my pretend-relationship proposition ratcheting up my anxiety. There’s so much to admire too: Her eyes are the kind of brown that feels sumptuous—like the center of one of those molten lava cakes you’re advised to order even before you’ve had the entrée because it takes thirty minutes to prepare. And that hair. It’s everywhere. Big curls in different shades, from caramel to walnut; they deserve their own zip code, and I’d fucking live in it if I could. Now, I don’t dare stare at her mouth—feels too intimate—but I do register her high cheekbones and the smoothness of her brown skin. Ironically, Max’s warning prompts me to think about leaping over the lines I claimed just an hour ago I had no intention of crossing. Who would blame me? Not a goddamn person, that’s who.

A throat clears, snapping me out of the moment. Oh, right. The roommate’s still here.

“I’m out, people,” Brandon says, a knowing grin suggesting he can easily guess where my head’s been. “I’m covering for someone who’s running late, so I’ll be back soon. Just in case you need to sync your activities with my whereabouts.”

Solange purses her lips at Brandon, then dismisses him with a wave. “Tchau.”

“Good to meet you, Dean.”

“Same, man.”

After Brandon leaves, Solange crams the laundry basket in a standalone utility closet by the fridge, using her backside to ram the door shut. “Can I get you anything? Water? A beer?”

“I’m good for now, thanks.” I spin around and study her space. “You know, we’re practically neighbors.”

She nods. “I saw that in the dossier. The backstory is that Brandon’s parents own a couple of properties in the district. This is one of them.”

“Now that’s a sweet deal.”

“Yeah, especially considering my salary.” Her eyes suddenly grow wide, and she points in my direction, backing away slowly. “Oh my God, what are those?”

“What?” I say, holding up my arms and scanning the area around me.

“Are those . . . jeans? I thought you only wore button-downs and slacks because they’re more your”—she makes air quotes—“‘style.’”

I tilt my head and flatten my lips. “Really? Right when I was beginning to like you . . .”